been attacked,” I said. “I and my friends have been attacked. This girl is dying, and at least four other people are injured in the Masquerade. We need ambulances and backup in case Mirabilus had any other help—”
“Mirabilus?” the female officer said. “Like the Mysterious Mirabilus—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said, glaring at her.
“Settle down, now,” the female officer said. “I now you’ve been through a lot—”
Damnit, they were thinking that whatever I’d been through was over, but for all I knew the guards were coming back with shotguns to clean up the evidence. I needed help. We needed help. For a moment I thought of lunging for the car’s radio and calling for help myself, but my dad was on the force: I knew I’d never make it. Something more subtle was required.
So I did the first thing that came to mind. It’s lame, I know, but it works: I swayed.
“Oh God,” I said, tottering. Then I leaned heavily on the hood. “Can—can I sit down for a minute?”
“Sure thing, little lady,” the female officer said. She stepped to the back passenger door and opened it, and I smiled weakly, leaning on the car with one hand as I walked around it—but as I passed the front passenger door I dove in and shot one long arm in to grab the car’s mike.
“Black Mayday, Black Mayday, D-E-I assets down, Black Mayday, Black Mayday—”
“God damn you, you tricky bitch,” the female officer said, hauling me out, twisting my arm round and slamming my cheek to the hood of the car. I screamed and bucked at the pain in my hand, but she twisted harder and pushed me down. “Jeez, she’s strong,” she said, and I winced as a cuff went on one wrist. “Help me—”
I bucked up and clocked the woman in the jaw with the back of my head, and then the other officer surged around the car and pinned me down in. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, grasping my other squirming wrist and cuffing it too. “She’s my partner—“
“Go easy,” I heard the female officer say. “Look at what they’ve been through. Between the drugs and whatever their pimp did to them she’s probably out of her mind—”
And then the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard swept over us, a rising, high-pitched purring like a mechanical cat—or a muffled leafblower, sweeping out of City Hall East and swooping over us in a sudden gust of wind. A bright light pinned us all, followed by an eruption of red and blue flashing lights as a DEI Shadowhawk decloaked above us.
“This is the Department of Extraordinary Investigations!” Philip’s voice roared over the PA. “Officers stand down! APD officers stand down!”
“Boy, that was quick,” I muttered under my breath.
The Shadowhawk set down in the middle of North Avenue, its whirling blades whipping over our heads as Philip leapt out, brandishing his badge and shouting, “D-E-I agent! Officers stand down, stand down! DEI agent! Stand down, stand down!”
“Holy… cow,” the officer said, releasing me.
Philip ran up, holding his badge up like a shield, shades glowing red like night-vision goggles and carrying an enormous black combat shotgun carefully pointed away from the APD officers. “Special Agent Philip Davidson, DEI! Miss Frost, Miss Frost, are you all right?”
“I’m not hurt,” I said, “but the tattoo killer tortured Cinnamon to get to me.”
“Damnit!” Philip shouted, staring straight at me, then surveying Cinnamon, the officers, and the rest of the scene in one quick glance.
Then he threw the shotgun over his shoulder and scooped Cinnamon off the hood of the car. “Pilot! I need an emergency evac—”
“If you disappear her, I will kill you,” I shouted after him.
Philip nodded, never looking back. “Emory Hospital—special emergencies unit, stat!”
Philip deposited Cinnamon in the back of the Shadowhawk and stepped back, motioning to another officer, who was already grabbing a first aid kit as Philip closed the door and whirled his hand for the black helicopter to lift off. It left the ground in a rising whine, and Philip bore down on us in a whirlwind of debris and rage.
“Half of Little Five Points is bleeding out in the Masquerade,” I shouted. “Alex, Jinx, Wulf, Buck—and would someone get these cuffs off me!”
“Do it,” Philip said. “What are we facing in there?”
“The killer was Christopher Valentine—yes!—but he’s dead,” I said, as the female officer freed my hands. “He was controlling Wulf through a magic tattoo. And guess who was helping him—our favorite poseur vampire!”